I pulled a face. “Right. That’s what was missing in this conversation.”
She laughed. “Listen, I knew when we were in fifth grade and you had me sleep over for the first time that we were not exactly cut from the same cloth. Any eleven-year-old who thinks it’s fun to alphabetize her Popstar! magazines according to the last name of the guy on the cover is definitely going to do things in life I will not.” She squeezed my shoulder, her warmth and long-time support of me filling any doubt I’d carved out between us. “Love you, Char. Go knock ’em dead, just like you always do.”
I nodded, feeling suddenly emotional. “Thanks, Manda.”
“Now,” she said as she turned toward the kitchen. “Let’s get your face back, Dane. You’re much more handsome without facial hair.”
“Hair is cweepy!” Dane said, triumphant in his new knowledge.
I watched them walk away and blinked away the love I had for this motley crew. A full breath and a quick glance to make sure Kai’s car was really gone, I opened the door and walked out with new resolve to prove myself worthy of all the support I’d been given. Time to finish what you’ve started, I said to myself, and I quickened my step on my way to face the workday.
26
THE next week at Thrill, the cameras were gone, and I cooked like a woman on fire. No rush was too daunting, no special order too inconvenient. When the production crew left, Tova was granted a few days off, and I barely noticed having to pull extra weight in her absence. Free to do what I knew best without anyone watching, I threw myself into the work. The prepping, the measuring, the scoring, the seasoning, the baking, the scouring—I saw nothing but the doing. From the first moment I arrived at Thrill to the second before my body made an easy surrender to sleep, I pushed every nonwork thought out of my mind, particularly those involving men who named diners after their grandfathers, and focused solely on running the pastry kitchen that was soon to be mine without any strings attached.
The exodus of Margot, Vic, and their posse had the opposite effect on Avery. After a harrowing weekend of packed tables and constant demands, we met Monday morning to share the ride to a photo shoot in a loft downtown. The driver opened the back door of the dark sedan, and I slipped in next to Avery, who was sitting with his head resting on the backseat, eyes closed.
“Are you sick?” I tried to be discreet as I scooted as far away from him and his pallid complexion as I could.
“No,” he said without opening his eyes. The car eased forward and into traffic. “I feel great.”
I whistled. “You’d better start looking alive or Margot will take drastic measures. I’ve heard she is a fan of spray tanning.”
“I’d be open to a little sunshine in a can,” he said, rubbing his face with one hand. “This week killed me. I’d forgotten how hard it was to work in a restaurant.” His expression was sheepish. “I can’t wait until next season when all the support staff comes back. And I can roam around the restaurant looking for story lines instead of being married to the stove all night.”
I frowned. “I thought you liked being married to the stove. The stove is a great spouse.”
Avery sniffed his disagreement. “I’ve seen the light, Charlie. And I’m not going back. Food media is where it’s at for me. Thrill is just a launching pad.”
A sidewalk folk band caught my eye out the tinted window, and I listened to muted strains of a Marvine Gaye cover as we drove past. The vibrancy of Seattle unfolded as we made our way through the city. The trees were just beginning to turn, and I saw glimpses of yellow amid the deep green. A chatty group of teenagers filled one section of sidewalk, joined at the arms and blocking anyone else’s passage.
When the car slowed to a stop, I craned my neck to look upward. I could glimpse a few stories of weathered red brick and the name on a small sign. In a vintage font, the lettering read BACK DOOR EVENTS. The driver opened my door and instructed us to go to the third floor, where Vic met us with a clipboard tucked under his arm and two glasses of champagne.
He offered the drinks to us but was so distracted, he could have been handing us our Costco receipts with a streak of highlighter down the middle. “Hi, guys. Drink these and try to relax. You’ll take better photos.” His eyes settled on Avery. “Good God, man, do you sleep? Head over to makeup and see if they can bring some color into your face. And don’t let Margot see you until they’re done or we’ll get way behind schedule waiting for you to go to Bronze Bodies.”
I nudged Avery in the ribs. He took a quick sip of his champagne before striding over to the makeup corner.